Category: Poetry

This life is so precious,
time so tender, we drive
to earn - yearn for more -
and recognize the drain
on our life and time;
tomorrow we'll start
making the change
into who we want to be,
but today we've wasted
the burst on who we are -
there is satisfaction there -
but more frustration
at not getting ahead
to where we want to be,
so we strive but we're tired,
and satisfied - comfortable -
and scared of uncertainty,
but certain in our circumstance,
we plunge into each new day
with hope we'll break the cycle
because maybe, tomorrow.

I am through.
No more will I play
the martyr's role;
there is no joy there.

I will not find fault in others
for my failure to achieve.
I will bear my yoke with thanks
for the experience provided,
and take up the cause
of my own happiness,
no longer leaving it to chance
or the whims of others.

I am no longer Life's victim.
I am unshackled.
I spread my arms wide
and embrace the air.
I am alive.

A light fog sits easy
atop the empty field 
stained with the night's tears,
its blades bent under
the weight of their sadness -
they wait for the first rays 
of sunlight to cut through the mist
and loosen the muscles 
of their backs
that they might stand straight
and carry their burdens
unbowed and bask
in the glow of the sun.